Wizard's Worlds: A Short Story Collection (Witch World) Read online

  There was so much she must learn, must know, and she could not discover it save indirectly, lest she reveal what she was and was not.

  “I am tired.”

  “There is a resting place prepared,” the woman said. “You have only to come—”

  Tamisan had almost to lever herself up as the noblewoman had done. She was giddy, had to catch at the back of the chair. Then she moved after her hostess, hoping desperately to know . . .

  5

  DID one sleep in a dream, dream upon dream, perhaps? Tamisan wondered about that as she stretched out upon the couch her hostess showed her. Yet when she set aside her crown and laid her head upon the roll which served as a pillow, she was once more alert, her thoughts racing or entangled in such wild confusion that she felt as giddy as she had upon rising from her seer’s chair.

  The Starrex symbol overlying both that of the sword and the space ship in the sand picture—could it mean that she would only find what she sought when the might of this world met that of the starmen? And had she indeed in some manner fallen into the past where she would relive the first coming of the space voyagers to Ty-Kry? But no, the noblewoman had mentioned past encounters with them which had ended in favor of Ty-Kry.

  Tamisan tried to envision a world of her own time, but one in which history had taken a different road. Yet much of that around tier was of the past. Did that mean that, without the decisions of her own time, the world of Ty-Kry remained largely unchanged from century to century?

  Real, unreal, old, now—she had lost all a dreamer’s command of action. Tamisan did not play now with toys which she could move about at will, but rather was caught up in a series of events she could not foresee and over which she had no control. Yet twice the woman had called her by her rightful name—and without willing it she had used the devices of a Mouth of Olava to foretell, as if she had done so many times before.

  Could it be? Tamisan closed her teeth upon her lower lip and felt the pain of that, just as she felt the pain of the bruises left by her abrupt entrance into the mysterious here. Could it be that some dreams were so deep, so well woven that they were to the dreamer real? Was this indeed the fate of those “closed” dreamers who were worthless for the Hive? Did they in their trances live a countless number of lives? But she was not a closed dreamer—

  Awake! Once more, stretched as she was upon the couch, she used the proper technique to throw herself out of a dream. And once more she experienced that weird nothingness in which she spun sickeningly, as if held helplessly in some void, tied to an anchor which kept her back from the full leap to sane safety. There was only one explanation—that somewhere in this strange Ty-Kry one or both of those who had prepared to share her dream was now to be found and must be sought out before she could return.

  So—the sooner that she accomplished, the better! But where should she start seeking? Though a feeling of weakness clung to her limbs, making her move slowly as if she strove to walk against the pull of a strong current, Tamisan arose from the couch. She turned to pick up her Mouth’s crown and so looked into the oval of a mirror, startled thus into immobility. For the figure she looked upon as her own reflection was not that she had seen before.

  It was not the robe or the crown which had changed her; she was not the same person. For a long time, ever since she could remember, she had had the pallid skin and the close-cropped hair of a dreamer very seldom in the sunlight. But the face of the woman in the mirror was a soft, even brown. The cheekbones were wide, the eyes large, the lips very red. Her brows—she leaned closer to the mirror to see what gave them that odd upward slant and decided that they had been plucked or shaven to produce the effect. Her hair was perhaps three fingers long and not her very fair coloring, but dark and curling. She was not the Tamisan she knew, nor was this stranger the product of her own will.

  And it must follow logically that if she did not look like her normal self—then perhaps the two she sought were no longer as she remembered either. Thus her search would be twice the more difficult. Could she ever recognize them?

  Frightened now, she sat down on the couch, facing the mirror. No, she dared not even give way to fear. For if she once let it break her control she might be utterly lost. Logic, even in such a world of unlogic, must make her think lucidly.

  Just how true was her soothsaying? At least she had not influenced that fall of the sand. Therefore—perhaps the Mouth of Olava did have supernatural powers. She had played with the idea of magic in the past to embroider dreams, but that had been her own creation. Could she use it by will now—since it would seem this unknown self of hers did manage to draw upon some unknown source of power?

  Fasten her thoughts upon one of the men, hold him in her mind—could the dream tie pull her to him? Kas or Starrex? All she knew of her master she had learned from tapes, and tapes gave one only superficial knowledge, as if one could study a person going through only half-understood actions behind a veil which concealed more than it displayed. Kas had spoken directly to her, his flesh had touched hers. If she must choose one to draw her, then it had better be Kas.

  Kas—in her mind Tamisan built a memory sketch of him as she would build a preliminary picture for a dream. Then suddenly the Kas in her mind flickered and changed. She saw another man. He was taller than the Kas she knew, and he wore a uniform tunic and space boots—his features were hard to distinguish—and that vision lasted only a fraction of time.

  The ship! That symbol had lain touching both ship and sword in the sand seeing. And it would be easier to seek a man on the ship than wandering through the streets of a strange city with no better clue than that Starrex—this world’s counterpart—might just be here.

  So little on which to pin a quest! A ship which might or might not be now approaching Ty-Kry—and which would meet a drastic reception when it landed. Suppose Kas—or his this-world’s double—were killed? Would that anchor her here for all time? Resolutely Tamisan pushed such negative speculation to the back of her mind. First things first; the ship had not yet planeted. But when it came she must make sure that she was among those who were preparing for its welcome.

  It seemed that having made that decision she was at last able to sleep, for the fatigue which had struck at her in the hall returned a hundredfold, and she fell, back on the couch as one drugged, remembering nothing more until she awakened to find the woman in green standing above her, one hand on her shoulder shaking her gently back to awareness.

  “Awake—there is a summons.”

  A summons to dream, Tamisan thought dazedly, and then the unfamiliar room, the immediate past came completely back to her.

  “The First Standing Jassa has summoned.” The woman sounded excited. “It is said by her messenger, and he has brought a chair cart for you, that you are to go to the High Castle! Perhaps you will see for the Over-Queen herself! But there is time—I have won it for you—to bathe, to eat, to change your robe. See—I have plundered my own bride chest—” She pointed to a chair over which was spread a robe, not of the deep violet Tamisan now wore, but of a purple-wine. “It is the only one of the proper color—or near it.” She ran her hand lovingly over the rich folds.

  “But haste!” she added briskly. “As a Mouth you can claim the need for making ready to appear before high company, but to linger too long will raise the anger of the First Standing.”

  There was a basin large enough to serve as a bath in the room beyond. And, as well as the robe, the woman brought fresh body linen. So that when Tamisan stood once more before the mirror to clasp her silver belt and assume the Mouth crown, she felt renewed and refreshed and her thanks were warm.

  But the woman made a gesture of brushing them aside. “Are we not of the same clan, cousin-kin? Shall one say that Nahra is not open-handed with her own? That you are a Mouth is our clan pride, let us enjoy it through you!”

  She brought a covered bowl and a goblet and Tamisan ate a dish of mush-meal into which had been baked dried fruit and bits of what she thought well-ch
opped meat. It was tasty, and she finished it to the last crumb, just as she emptied the cup of a tart-sweet drink.

  “Well away, Tamisan, this is a great day for the clan of Fremont when you go to the High Castle and perhaps stand before the Over-Queen. May it be that the Seeing is not for ill, but for good. Though you are but the Mouth of Olava and not the One dealing fortune to us who live and die.”

  “For your aid and your good wishing, receive my thanks,” Tamisan said. “I, too, hope that fortune comes from misfortune on this day.” And that is stark truth, she thought, for I must gather fortune to me with both hands and hold it tight, lest the chancy game I play be lost.

  First Standing Jassa’s messenger was an officer, his hair clubbed up under a ridged helm to give additional protection to his head in battle, his breastplate enameled blue with the double crown of the Over-Queen, and his sword very much to the fore—as if he already strode the street of a city at war. There was a small grypon between the shafts of the chair cart and two men-at-arms ready, one at the grypon’s head, the other holding aside the curtains as their officer handed Tamisan into the chair. He brusquely jerked the curtains shut without asking her pleasure, and she decided that perhaps her visit to the High Castle was to be a secret matter.

  But between the curtain edges she caught sight of this Ty-Kry. And, though in parts it was very strange to her, there were enough similarities to provide her with an anchor to the real. The sky towers and other off-world forms of architectures which had been introduced by space travelers were missing. But the streets themselves, the many beds of foliage and flowers, were those she had known all her life.

  And the High Castle—she drew a deep breath as they wound out of town and along the river—this—this had been part of her world, too, though then as a ruined and very ancient landmark. Part of it had been slagged in the war of Sylt’s rebellion. And it had been considered a place of misfortune, largely shunned, save for off-world tourists seeking the unusual.

  But here it was in its pride, larger, more widely spread than in her Ty-Kry, as if the generations who had deserted it in her world had clung to it here, adding ever to its bulk. For it was not a single structure but a city in itself, though it had no merchants nor public buildings, but rather provided homes to shelter the nobles, who must spend part of the year at court, and all their servants, and the many officials of the kingdom.

  In its heart was the building which gave it its name, a collection of towers, rising far above the lesser structures at the foot. These were of a gray at their bases which changed subtly as they arose until their tops were a deep, rich blue, while the other buildings in the great pile were wholly gray as to wall, a darker blue as to roof.

  The chair creaked forward on its two wheels, the grypon being kept to a steady pace by the man at its head, and passed under the thick arch in the outer wall, then up a street between buildings which, though dwarfed by the towers, were in turn dwarfing to those who walked or rode by them.

  There was a second gate, more buildings, a third, and then the open space about the central towers. They had passed people in plenty since entering the first gate. Many were soldiers of the guard, but some of the armed men had worn other colors and insignia, being, Tamisan guessed, the retainers of court lords. And now and then some Lord came proudly, his retinue strung along behind him by threes to make a show which amused Tamisan, as if the number of followers to tread on one’s heels enhanced one’s importance in the world.

  She was handed down with a little more ceremony than she had been ushered into the chair. And the officer offered her his wrist, his men falling in behind as a groom hurried forward to lead off the equipage, thus affording her a tail-of-honor too.

  But the towers of the High Castle were so awe-inspiring, so huge a pile, she was glad she had an escort into their heart. The farther they went through halls—so high that it was hard to see their dusky roofs, ill lit by only the big candles in their man-tall holders—the more uneasy she became. As if once within his maze there might be no retreat and she would be lost forever.

  6

  TWICE they climbed staircases until her legs ached with the effort and the stairs took on the aspect of mountains. Then her party passed into a long hall which was lighted not only by the candle-trees but some thin rays filtering through windows placed so high above their heads that nothing could be seen through them. And Tamisan, in that part of her which seemed familiar with this world, knew this to be the Walk of the Nobles, and the company now gathered here were, nearest, the Third Standing, then the Second and, at the far end of that road of blue carpet onto which her guide led her, First Standing—or rather sitting, there being two arcs of hooded and canopied chairs, with a throne above them on a three-step dais. And the hood over that was upheld by a double crown which glittered with gems, while on the steps were grouped men in the armor of the guard and others wearing bright tunics, their hair loose upon their shoulders.

  It was toward that throne that the officer led her and they passed through the ranks of the Third Standing, hearing a low murmur of voices. Tamisan looked neither to right or left. She wished to see the Over-Queen, for it was plain she was being granted full audience. And then—something stirred deep within her as if a small pin pricked. The reason for this she did not know, save that ahead was something of vast importance to her.

  Now they were equal with the first of the chairs and she saw that the greater number of those who so sat were women, but not all. And mainly they were of an age to be at least in middle life. So Tamisan came to the foot of the dais, and in that moment she did not go to one knee as did the officer, but rather raised her fingertips to touch the rim of the crown on her head. For with another of those flashes of half recognition, she knew that in this place that which she represented did not bow as did others, but acknowledged only that the Queen was one to whom human allegiance was granted after another and greater loyalty was paid elsewhere.

  The Over-Queen looked down with as deeply searching a stare as Tamisan looked up. And what Tamisan saw was a woman to whom she could not set an age; rather she might be either old or young, for the years had not seemed to mark her. The robe on her full figure was not ornate, but a soft pearl color without ornamentation, save that she wore a girdle of silvery chains braided and woven together, and a collarlike necklace of the same metal from which fringed milky gems cut into drops. Her hair was a flame of brightly glowing red in which a diadem of the same creamy stones was almost hidden. As for her face—was she beautiful? Tamisan could not have said. But that she was vitally alive there was no doubt. Even though she sat so quietly now, there was an aura of energy about her suggesting that this was only a pause between the doing of great and necessary deeds. To Tamisan she was the most assertive personality she had ever seen and instantly the guards of a dreamer went into action. To serve such a mistress, Tamisan thought, would sap all the personality from one, so that the servant would become but a mirror to reflect from that surrender onward.

  “Welcome, Mouth of Olava who has been uttering strange things.” The Over-Queen’s voice was mocking, challenging.

  “A Mouth says naught, Great One, save what is given it to speak.” Tamisan found her answer ready, though she had not consciously formed it in her mind.

  “So we are told. Though Gods may grow old and tired. Or is that only the fate of men? But now it is our will that Olava speak again—if that is fortune for this hour. So be it!”

  As if that last phrase was an order there was a stir among those standing on the steps of the throne. Two of the guardsmen brought out a table, a third a stool, the fourth a tray on which rested four bowls of sand. These they set up before the throne.

  Tamisan took her place on the stool, again put her fingers to her temples. Would this work once more? Or must she try to force a picture in the sand? She felt a small shiver of nerves she fought to control.

  “What desires the Great One?” She was glad to hear her voice steady, no hint of her uneasiness in it.
>
  “What chances in—say four passages of the sun?”

  Tamisan waited. Would that other personality or power, or whatever it might be, take over? But her hand did not move. Instead that odd, disturbing prick grew the stronger; she was drawn, even as a noose might be laid about her forehead to pull her head around. So she turned to follow the dictates of that pull, to look where something willed her eyes to look. But all she saw was the line of officers on the steps of the throne, and they stared at and through her, none with any sign of recognition by Starrex! She grasped at that hope; but none of them resembled the man she sought.

  “Does Olava sleep? Or has His Mouth been forgotten for a space?”

  The Over-Queen’s voice was sharper, and Tamisan broke that hold on her attention, looked back to the throne and the woman on it.

  “It is not meet for the Mouth to speak unless Olava wishes—” Tamisan began, with increasing nervousness until she felt that sensation in her left hand, as if it were not under her control but possessed by another will. She fell silent as it gathered up the brownish sand and tossed it to form a picture’s background.

  But this time she did not seek next the blue grains; rather her fist dug into the red and moved to paint in the outline of the space ship, above it a single red circle.

  Then there was a moment of hesitation, before her fingers strayed to the green, took up a generous pinch and again made Starrex’s symbol below the ship.

  “A single sun,” the Over-Queen read out. “One day until the enemy comes. But what is the remaining word of Olava, Mouth?”

  “That there be one among you who is a key to victory. He shall stand against the enemy and under him fortune comes.”